You Were On Your Way Home
by the-last-garrison
Summary: Everyone kept trying to ease his pain with the popular, 'She's in a better place now' or 'She was so lovely, God couldn't wait to have her all to himself'. "Fuck that. And fuck God for that matter. We are gathered here today, sad as fuck, to say goodbye, forever...and then we'll have cake and coffee at someone's house." Aizawa's story of uncanny love and unexpected loss. Dig deep.
1. Prologue

**You Were On Your Way Home: Prolouge**

 _Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, we offer ourselves to you._

* * *

 ** _You were on your way home when you died._**

It was an unusually cold night, especially for that time of spring.

Work had been exhausting—it was a bad day at the hospital.

You already knew that day was going to be bad when you saw the news playing on the television screens at the station that morning—your train was delayed, anyway. Two dozen children had been killed by a separatist military faction in a faraway country, and the broadcasting station showed clips of their mothers throwing themselves in tears over the mass grave.

What made it worse was when four members of a family—victims of a villain attack—had been rushed through the emergency room doors by the paramedics.

You did everything you could to help them.

The older woman was being worked up by the paramedics who brought her in, but she died on the trauma table at 21:27. Maybe it was because you didn't do chest compressions hard enough. Maybe it was because you didn't push the epinephrine fast enough. Maybe it was because half of her scalp had been left behind at the crime scene.

Her husband, who had been brought in with minor head injuries and two fractured femurs, threw himself at you in despair. For a brief moment, you let him hit you with his fists—his broken and mangled legs dragged behind him like a grotesque puppet. You were reminded of the news that morning—of the grieving mothers throwing themselves on the graves of their children. The man took a scalpel from the table. You thought he was going to stab you, but really, he was trying to cut his tongue out.

He was restrained by security and sedated with a syringe.

A young woman with a wedding ring came in next. Or at least, what was left of her. The police told you that her husband was a known villain with the quirk of indestructible teeth, but they could only be used at night. When she didn't have dinner prepared for him, he killed her, dismembered her body, attempted to kill her parents, and their only son. He almost succeeded, before the pro-heroes arrived. What came into the emergency room was a white sheet on a gurney, and when you lifted it, there lay only two arms covered in scraps of what was once a bath robe.

You had the same one at home.

Behind her came her son. The paramedics had intubated him, but it was hard to get air into his lungs when he no longer had any. You pronounced him dead at 21:56, after thirteen minutes elbow deep in his open chest cavity, giving him a cardiac massage with your gloved hand.

The attending physicians, technicians and additional nurses in the trauma room bowed deeply to the boy with the open chest on the table in front of them.

He was seven years old.

Someone put a white sheet over him, and then you all left the room to get dinner. It was beef curry night in the cafeteria, and you didn't want to miss out on it for the second time that month.

A colleague pointed out that there was too much blood on your ceil blue uniform, because apparently you didn't notice, so you had to throw it out.

The hospital gave you a new one to wear until the end of your shift—surgical green. It was too big for you, and it kept getting caught on the corners of desks and around doorknobs every time you walked through the hallways or past your nurses' station.

You clocked out of work at midnight, having spent the rest of your shift changing bed pans and emptying Foley catheters.

Your feet hurt, but you were unbothered to change out of your white nurse's shoes.

The corner convenience store you stopped at didn't have the right kind of bread, a scuffle between some thugs and a pro-hero diverted you from your normal route, and you lost your scarf somewhere between the third train station and second bus stop.

You were three blocks from your apartment, thinking about your cat, when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned around, but no one was there. Walking on, you were uneasy, and rightfully so.

It may have been late, but it was still too quiet, too dark and too cold.

You clutched your bag to your side with both hands and walked faster, the fabric of the oversized uniform rubbing together loudly. There was pepper spray on your keys, but you weren't thinking fast enough to grab it. Thinking about grieving mothers and men cutting out their tongues and the little boy whose heart stopped in your hand and…and…and….

Your head hit the concrete.

A large hand had reached out from behind and pulled you down by your hair.

" _I should have put my hair up…"_ You thought. But there was a handsome young doctor who always called you by the wrong name that you were trying to impress. He hadn't noticed, and he called you by a different man's name on three different times in the same conversation.

You tried to scream for help, but nothing came out when your assailant's boot was clamped down on your windpipe.

" _Oh_ ," you thought. _"This isn't good."_

You looked up as best you could but caught only the glimpse of an unnaturally large mouth, baring unnaturally sharp teeth.

Fight-or-flight scrambled you onto your belly and you tried to crawl away, but that just made it easier for him to hook his claws into the waistband of your pants.

You thrashed about, clawed at your throat, tried to keep your clothing as tightly to you as possible, kicked at your assailant, scrambled for your keys with the pepper spray hanging off them. You just managed to reach them—the cartoon bear emblazed on the pink cannister of pepper spray winked at you, and with your last effort—because evidentially, the assailant had taken your forearm in his jaws and bit down—you thought about how cute that bear was.

There was no use thinking about the pain in your arm, or how desperate you were.

That was because it had all stopped—the world, that is.

The teeth retracted from your arm, a weight lifted from you—the cold air nipped at your now bare thighs, but nothing happened…

You thought you were about to die, but instead, there you lay, starring at dizzying shapes in your field of vision that weren't really there. Hours in seconds passed you by as you fought to retain your consciousness, and the contents of your stomach.

A dark figure crouched over you.

It was a head of scruffy hair, and as your vision blurred in and out—your body shutting down out of freight—you reached out to the figure. It tried to speak to you, but all you could do was brush your fingers against the dark hairs on his face, now distantly illuminated in flashing lights of red and blue.

When you smeared blood on his cheek, you choked out an, "I'm sorry", because really, you were very sorry for making such a mess.

The last thing you grasped before vomiting in your own mouth and losing consciousness was a pair of glowing red eyes, and you thought about the mothers grieving over their childrens' graves.

 _ **You were on your way home.**_

* * *

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 1

**You Were On Your Way Home: Chapter 1**

 _Once I sink my teeth in, your skin's not so deep._

* * *

Hana watched fixedly as the clouds rolled past her from the other side of the window. There was a stack of freshly laundered linens in her arms that needed to be taken to patients' bedsides, but something about vegetating in the warmth of the sunlight compelled her to stay.

Only a few days had passed since she had been attacked by a villain on her way home, and despite incessant pleads from colleagues, doctors and police, Hana had decided to return to work as soon as she was able-bodied.

A length of bandages covered her arm where she had been bitten, and really, she didn't think the abrasions on the right side of her face were as bad as everyone made them out to be. The bruising on her trachea strained her to speak past a certain volume, but she had been assured that after a few more days rest, she would be back to a normal. In the meantime, instead of going back to work in the emergency room, Hana had been floated to a slower-paced, easier-going recovery unit somewhere on the eighth floor of the hospital. Hospital management said that it was to ease her back into the workplace, but really it was because they didn't want her ugly mug where people could see her.

" _That's fair,"_ she thought.

On the eighth floor, Hana changed the linens and helped patients to the toilet and monitored blood pressures.

Clock in, and clock out.

Other nurses whispered about her.

They thought maybe she was unstable—what with having been so brutally attacked. And maybe she was, to some extent—the assault hadn't phased her at all. The hospital psychiatry board insisted on having her go through PTSD therapy, but they were met with a prompt refusal of treatment.

As far as Hana was concerned, everything continued as if nothing ever happened, just with a little more limping and wincing than usual. The only real noticeable difference was that the media heckled her every time she tried to come and go from the hospital.

She walked past them every time and headed right for the bus stop.

Occasionally, an out-of-the-loop nurse's aide would watch the news story on their phone when they thought she was out of earshot.

She never was.

" _In the early hours of the morning, a Tokyo University Hospital employee was attacked outside of her apartment on the way home from work. Earlier that evening, Hana Watanabe, an emergency room nurse, had been in charge of care for a family brought in by paramedics after being viciously attacked by the villain known as…"_

Hana was making the window-side bed in the room at the end of the hall—the patient who had just vacated was now occupying a space in the basement morgue—when there was a knock at the door.

There stood two people, guided by a hospital official.

The taller one of the two had the face of a very serious-looking bipedal canine—his jowls were slightly droopier than normal, but the well-tailored black suit he wore drew attention away from the aura of Zoloft lingering in the wake of his presence. Hana knew him as the chief of police, Kenji Tsuragamae. He had come into the emergency room many times to speak to nursing staff—mostly about criminals who were to stand trial that needed psychiatric evaluation. They would arrive via police ambulance through the emergency department, and it was often the nursing staff's task to get them checked in.

Bowing to him in greeting, Hana couldn't help but peek up at the other person standing with the police chief. He was a slouchy man with a scruffy face who had failed to introduce himself. She stared at him, but the scruffy face stared anywhere else.

When the police chief asked if there was somewhere that he and his slouchy, scruffy colleague could speak to the nurse privately, the hospital official minding them began to sweat unnaturally, continuously bowing to the two like a toad when he walked. The official offered his own office near the top of the thirty-story hospital, and left them alone to speak, no doubt with his ear pressed against a glass on the other side of the door.

Hana sat on the other side of a long mahogany table, folding her hands in her lap. She sat well for someone who had been mauled by a villain not even a week ago, careful to keep the dimensions of her body inside the chair. She wondered how long this meeting was going to take—the man in 807-A was probably about done on the bedpan and would need to be wiped…805-A was agitated last time she saw them, and was no doubt pulling on their IV again…812-B was overdue by five minutes for their blood pressure medication…it was a quarter past six in the evening, which meant that 801-A needed their insulin shot…and…and… _and_ ….

"Ms. Watanabe?" woofed a voice.

There was a ringing in her ears.

" ," Chief Tsuragamae said again, slightly louder. His jowls giggled. "Ms. Watanabe."

"…Yes?" Hana had come back to reality, her face suddenly flushed.

"Are you feeling alright?" Asked the canine's jowls.

She blinked a few times, her eyes dry. She hadn't realized that she'd been gone that long. "Yes," she concurred, nodding her head very slightly.

The two across the table—and it was two now, because the slouchy, scruffy man had finally taken the liberty of joining them not just physically, but with interest—gave her a slow nod, not entirely sure if they believed her or not.

"…Ms. Watanabe, my colleague here and I have asked to meet with you on the account of your involvement as a victim in a violent attack by a villain. As prosecutors prepare a deposition for court, I'd greatly appreciate your cooperation with Japanese police…"

Hana had other things she was more concerned about—809-B needed another dose of Tramadol, afterall.

Ringing started in her ears again. She fixedly watched the police chief's jowls flap as he talked—flecks of spit kept sprinkling the various folds—one just landed on that paper.

The police chief thanked her—apparently, she had agreed to answer some questions—and then slid a file folder across the table to her. Her eyes followed the wet spot on the file. As she opened it, Hana pretended she couldn't feel the scruffy, slouchy man watching her every move.

It was a police booking photo of the villain who had killed his entire family. What a horrible angle. He was all head and no neck, and despite the muzzle over his face, she remembered him.

The jowls asked Hana if she knew this man.

"Yes. He's the villain who attacked me on my way home from work."

Check.

The jowls asked Hana if she had ever met this man before the night of the incident.

"No, never."

Check.

The jowls asked Hana if she knew why this man wanted to attack her.

"I was apart of the trauma team that tried to save his family…the doctor needed to be called in, so until he arrived, I took charge."

Scribble.

"Scratches were found by the paramedics on the villain. Did you fight back against your attacker?" Asked the jowls.

"Uh, yes…I did. I—"

"No, you didn't."

"I…," she started mindlessly, until she realized—it was the first time she had heard him speak: the slouchy, scruffy one. Hana was almost startled, until she processed his statement. "Excuse me?" She said, her eyebrows furrowed in reserved offence.

The man sat forward in his chair, folding his hands on the table in front of him. He annunciated the syllables in his statement for the nurse one more time.

" **No**. **You**. **Didn't**."

The man was suddenly filling the room with his presence.

Hana suppressed her acute light headedness. The heartbeat in the palm of her clammy hands grew louder, making her feel itchy all over.

"I…I'm sorry, who are you?" She asked, her inflection coming off as much more offended than she would have liked.

The police chief noticed Hana's discomfort and finally took the liberty of impatiently introducing his slouchy, scruffy companion. "Ms. Watanabe, my colleague here is known as Eraser Head. He's the pro hero who took down the villain that attacked you. He saved your life. Now, if we could get back to the question at hand—"

Hana paid no mind to the police chief once she could address the slouchy, scruffy man in front of her by name.

He spoke again.

"I was at the scene," Eraser Head spoke over the police chief. He was being disregarded by both of them now. "I even witnessed part of the altercation. You did almost nothing to defend yourself. Sure, the villain was significantly larger and stronger than you, but I've seen old women being mugged by ordinary purse snatchers who put up more of a fight than you did. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you wanted this villain to attack you," he said, words unwavering.

The ringing in her ears started again.

"That is completely…I—I have no idea what you're talking…." She couldn't even hear her own voice.

"I was already on the lookout for this guy when I happened upon you. By the time I had him in clear sight, it looked like you'd just given up," Eraser Head pushed on.

"… _821-A probably needs a straight catheter put in because they are having trouble urinating, 818-A needed their round of Haldol before they go to bed early. 813-B had an order in for a rectal temperature on their chart, the doctor will be needing that soon; 802-A is on sepsis alert, it's three minutes past seven in the evening now, so they need to have vitals checked again…"_

"Now, what would make a young woman with a good career at a well-respected hospital and everything going for her stop fighting for her life?"

"… _817-B was supposed to have a spinal tap in half an hour and the physician would need someone to set up the containers for the irretrievable specimens, 811-B needed another layer of the bonding glue on their shoulder wound applied, 820-A was supposed to be taken to the step-down unit after having their t-PA done…."_

"Tired of being over-worked in a place that couldn't give a shit about you? Or maybe you're just tired of living. Thought, 'Hey, this is a really convenient way to end it all', so you just laid down on your back and let it happen," he suggested, completely nonchalant.

Hana stood up, knocking her chair over in the process.

The ringing in her ears was now so loud, she could hardly hear what she was saying.

"That is completely out of line, not to mention farfetched. I'm sorry, but I have no more time to spare on this…whatever this is. I have patients to tend to. This is a hospital, not an episode of a daytime television crime drama. I suggest the two of you leave—visiting hours will be over soon. Have a nice evening, Chief Tsuragamae…. and you, Mr.…Head," she half-bowed, hastily exiting the room.

A feeling of sick rose up into the back of her throat.

It stayed there for the rest of the night.

* * *

Chapter 1.


	3. Chapter 2

**You Were On Your Way Home: Chapter 2**

* * *

" _We get so comfortable with walls. It doesn't even take that long."_

Hana hadn't been able to focus on work for the first time in her career.

After her meeting with the chief of police and that pro hero, she had insisted to her superior that she needed to be rotated back to the emergency room effective immediately. She needed something more to focus on that wasn't catheters and bed sores and the idle time in between.

For what good it was doing her, which, incidentally, was none, Hana wanted to start building a mortar and brick case around herself. It would have four walls and be ten feet tall. No one would be able to ask her questions ever again.

The chart in front of her was being neglected from its hourly updates because her head was too full of what _he_ said to her.

" _Tired of being over-worked in a place that couldn't give a shit about you? Or maybe you're just tired of living."_

All the way, deep down, she knew the answer.

"… _Right?"_

Staring blankly at the screen in front of her, she watched the cursor blink in the middle of a sentence she never finished until she gave in enough to take out her smart phone and open the search engine.

E…R…A…S…E…R…H…E…A…D

Search.

She scrolled down, but it was all links to blogs about rubber erasers shaped like cute food.

" _Shit, okay. Maybe it's two words?"_

She typed again, looking over her shoulder every character or so to make sure no one was watching. She felt silly—internet searching a pro hero like she was some kind of fangirl. Truthfully, Hana didn't care for the pro heroes very much. It wasn't that she disliked them, but some of them were just in over their heads. Withholding people from getting immediate medical care so that they could take an action shot with someone's unconscious body was kind of…well…fucked up…and as a healthcare provider, Hana had to frown upon it. Hospital officials and healthcare providers country-wide were in controversial talks with the government to stop the access of pro heroes to medical emergencies, a hot topic for debate on talk shows and nightly news.

E…R…A…S…E…R… _space_ …H…E…A…D

Search.

She clicked the first link at the top—not that there was much else to choose from. It was the public access website for Japan's Pro Hero Registration. Everything on file was common knowledge stuff. Anything worth knowing was either redacted for official government use, or just not posted at all. Hana had used this website before. Whenever pro heroes brought disaster or assault victims into the emergency room, she would use it to verify the hero's registration number, just like she would with a paramedic, fire fighter or any other civil servant. Some heroes—All Might, for example—had several pages and different tabs filled with statistics, pictures, videos and interviews with media.

Hana thought All Might was always loud and annoying every time he came in with a civilian, and now that she thought about it, she hadn't seen him as much recently.

" _Strange."_

Then there were other pro heroes—Mount Lady, Best Jeanist, Gang Orca—who had two or three pages with a reasonable amount of information and a few news clips from especially notable work they've done.

And then, there was Eraser Head.

Not even a paragraph.

There was a six-digit pro hero registration number in the top right corner, an agency name, and a phone number. Underneath that, there was the phone number for UA High School.

Hana tried to scroll down, scroll up, refresh the page—that was it. That was all there was to this _Eraser Head._ There wasn't even a photograph. Not that she needed one to remember the expression on his face when he accused her of— _"Never mind."_

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, startling her. Hana dropped the phone in her hand and hastily covered the screen with some of the miscellaneous papers on the desk in front of her, including a request form for a rectal exam. She pretended to fill it out.

"Oh, uh, I'm so sorry to bother you." It was one of the new nurses—some fresh-out-of-school, baby-faced girl who the hospital had contracted and hastily trained out of sheer desperation for nursing staff.

No one wanted to be a nurse or a doctor anymore, everyone wanted to be a pro hero.

"Yes, what is it?" Asked Hana, slipping her phone back into the pocket of her uniform.

"A new patient just walked into your district from triage, I thought maybe you'd like to know," she bowed. "Would you like me to put them on the monitor and draw blood?"

" _It's just work."_ Hana breathed a sigh of relief, initially worried that Baby Face had seen that she was perusing the internet for information on Eraser Head. "No that's fine, thank you. I'll go myself." She assured. The younger nurse gave a slight bow and walked away.

Hana impatiently printed the information sheet from the pro hero registration website and stuffed it haphazardly in her pocket. There had to be more to this _Eraser Head_ than what the public was being led to believe.

Bed 09 was occupied by a **Michigan, Thirteen** , age 111.

Whenever the hospital had to protect the identity of a patient—politicians, celebrities—the patient's first name was displayed as a number, their surname a location, usually an international state or province, and the age was generated randomly by the computer.

Chief complaint: laceration to the hand. Various blood draws required, followed by a tetanus shot.

Short and simple.

For once, Hana had no sense of urgency about a patient. It was always _now, now, now_ with her work, but this time, she was too occupied with her thoughts. She took her sweet time gathering blood draw vials and butterfly needles—something she'd mindlessly done thousands of times. Grabbing Michigan, Thirteen's chart, she drew back the curtain of Bed 09 and introduced herself without so much as a glance at the person kicked back on the gurney.

"Good morning"—it was 3 AM—"My name is Hana, I'll be your nurse. I'm going to get set up, and then I'll have to get some blood from you—"

"Nice to see you again, Ms. Watanabe—or I guess, _nurse_."

Before she could even turn around from her blood draw setup, a hand reached out and took the paper from her pocket. Trying to snatch it away was no use—a snide comment was already leaving his mouth.

"Doing some light reading?"

Hana snapped, taking the paper back out of Eraser Head's hand. "Do _not_ reach for things in my pockets, Mr. Head."

He grinned.

She felt nauseous.

"You're looking much less suicidal today," he stated at a slightly more elevated volume, just loud enough to threaten someone else hearing. "That bite on your arm is looking a lot better, and would you look at that—the bruising on your throat is almost entirely faded. I have to say, that shade of I-Was-Almost-Choked-To-Death Yellow is not your color. Makes you look pale."

Hana shushed him, drawing the curtain to ward off any curious eyes.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Her voice was stern and low now, not taking too kindly to this man coming into her workplace and making some very loud accusations about her for the second time in a week.

Eraser Head's face lit up strangely, making Hana uneasy. "Ah," he said, mildly impressed. "So she does speak." He held up his hand to her, wrapped in a green tea towel. "Cut my hand on the job."

Hana bit down on her tongue, reminding herself that she had to be a professional and put her personal feelings aside, whatever they may be. She must have been making a very funny face when contemplating what to do, because Eraser Head was now waving his tea towel in front of her, waiting for her to unwrap it.

"Are you going to fix me up or what? I don't have all night to watch you have inner turmoil. I want to get at least one nap in before the sun rises."

Something outwardly changed about her when he said that, like something in her brain had turned on.

Hana put on a pair of gloves and unwrapped the energetic tea towel being waved in her face. There was a deep laceration that split the medial side of the hand, curving up towards where the fingers began on the palm. Bleeding had stopped for the most part, aside from a bit of oozing from between the exposed muscle and fat. She picked through it with her fingers, looking for glass or splinters.

"Ow," Eraser Head grumbled, attempting to pull his hand away from her probing.

"Don't be such a baby," she scolded. "I didn't even do anything,"

He reluctantly complied, sitting still and festering in his sour mood.

"What did you do?" she asked. There was a basket of commonly used bedside supplies attached to the wall—socks, vomit bags, oxygen tubing, tissues—that she began rifling through before coming up with a bottle sterile water, and a vomit bag. She put the bag on Eraser Head's lap and attached a nozzle to the top of the water, carrying on with flushing out the wound while they talked.

"Cut it."

Hana was not impressed, glaring at him with something truly evil in her eyes.

"I was rounding up a villain when he cut me with a knife. I was careless, so I got hurt. Rookie mistake." Eraser Head sounded almost mad at himself.

"Whose tea towel is that?" She was genuinely curious, her tone much more civil.

"Some old lady handed it to me on the street."

"Oh, so you mean to tell me that there was just conveniently some old lady with a kitchen tea towel at the crime scene at three o'clock in the morning?"

"She was doing her laundry."

Hana's nostrils twitched.

"Hey, less likely shit happens every day," he shrugged, closing his eyes. Eraser Head was relaxed now, so to speak. For a hospital, the room temperature was comfortable. The freshly starched sheets provided a sense of cleanliness and thereby, ease. He hadn't washed his own bed sheets in…. _"What's today?"_ , he thought. Teaching at UA during the day and working special missions in the big city at night six days a week was taking a much bigger toll on him than originally expected. But…he was starting to forget about that. What made his mind really drift off was the warmth surrounding his injured hand.

Every muscle in the limb relaxed, unwinding.

"Take a deep breath in through your nose," he heard Hana say, somewhere far away. There was a different inflection in her voice now, but he was so busy with this heady feeling-of-anywhere-else, he hadn't noticed.

Eraser Head vaguely did as he was told.

" _What's gotten into me?"_ He wondered. _"Has it just been too long since I've had actual human contact? Maybe I_ should _have called that girl back…."_

Hana had ungloved one of her hands and placed the heel of her palm over Eraser Head's laceration. The seeming warmth he had felt from her encompassing clasp had become a tingling that was…starting to disturb his comfortable peace? After a few seconds, the tingling became a pins-and-needles feeling. Eraser Head's brow furrowed, his neck twitching slightly.

As Hana pressed down on his hand with the heal of her palm, and the pins-and-needles discomfort intensified, becoming a sharp, stabbing pain almost instantly, as if someone had taken the blade that cut him and just sawed off the rest of the hand.

Alarmed and in pain, the pro hero tried to pull his appendage away from Hana, but the more he did so, the harder she gripped, and the worse the pain got. Eraser Head squirmed and writhed, but Hana held on. The pain in his hand where she was pressing down becoming so unbearable that finally, he lurched forward and violently emptied the contents of his stomach into the plastic bag on his lap. She let go of him, stumbling back.

At a lost for words, he looked down at his hand in panic, fearing that she had done something to make it worse, but there was nothing there.

No cut.

No blood.

No scar.

No stretch marks.

Full range of motion.

He wiggled his fingers, turned his hand this way and that, and even blinked as hard as he could, but it was just… _gone_ —as if it had never been there in the first place.

Shaken and breathing heavily, he looked up through thick strands of his long black hair at Hana, who had taken a wet cloth to very roughly wipe the vomit from his mouth. Something was different about her now. She was standing up straight, her shoulders square—her jaw was thrust outward, her chin up. She spoke at a low volume, very, very clearly.

"You were never here and that never happened. I don't want to see you here ever again. Get out of my emergency room, before I have security drag your name through the mud."

Shutting the curtain behind her, he was left in befuddlement.

Befuddled, because he had read her police file numerous times, and Hana Watanabe was in the twenty percent of the population who were supposed to be quirkless.

" _Quirkless."_


End file.
